


It might have appeared to go unnoticed (but I've got it all here in my heart)

by BeckyBubbles



Category: Anne of Green Gables (TV 1985) & Related Fandoms, Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Sick Character, Sickfic, a little sad, aka shirbert didn't get together, and i wrote this as a birthday gift, and the Great Train Dressing Down never happened, lol, shirbert didn't write any letters, these are the most depressing tags ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27163874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeckyBubbles/pseuds/BeckyBubbles
Summary: The news arrived with the Saturday morning post.**An unexpected letter brings Anne home to Avonlea and back into the life of Gilbert Blythe, needing to tell him her feelings before it's too late.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe & Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 60
Kudos: 197





	It might have appeared to go unnoticed (but I've got it all here in my heart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dianawithaj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianawithaj/gifts).



> Hi there!
> 
> Here I am with another story for you and a few little notes to start with!
> 
> Firstly, a massive happy (early) birthday, Lela! I know the tags for this aren't too promising, but if there is one thing I know, it's that water signs enjoy a good cry. Thank you so much for all your kindness, support and friendship. I love you to bits! 
> 
> Secondly, a huge shout out to the very kind Elodie for helping me with my tags and to the very talented [Irina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruadarxch/pseuds/bruadarxch) for her patience and help in being beta for this. I appreciate you both so much!
> 
> Thirdly, (and this will be it, I promise) this is my first time writing a story like this (canon and a little sad). I hope I do it justice but keep that in mind if you find any clothing inaccuracies! 
> 
> The title is taken from 'Wind Beneath My Wings' by my lord and saviour, Bette Midler.
> 
> Enjoy! x

The news arrived with the Saturday morning post.

A seemingly innocuous envelope passed from a disgruntled mail-man to the stern Mrs Blackmore, who took it from him with a sharp tug, before pacing down the narrow, mahogany panelled hallway of Blackmore house and into the morning room where the young charges in her care dined, excitable chatter filling the space as they babbled about who was to call later that afternoon to spend an hour pressed side-by-side on the chaise longue in the parlour.

The red-haired girl, Mrs Blackmore noticed, was solemn, as she always was during these conversations; her pretty mouth downturned slightly at the edges, her rounded eyes dull as she glanced around her friends; the smile she forced her lips into more like a grimace, never quite reaching her lifeless eyes.

Mrs Blackmore tutted as she approached them in an effort to silence the din, but as always, her attempts to instil some decorum into the ladies in her home was rebutted; unnoticed and unheard. Instead, she passed the envelope across the table, stretching her hand over the breakfast dishes towards Anne, who took the envelope from her with a nod, the flicker of a smile ghosting across her features as she recognised the script; a distinctive, curling hand that Mrs Blackmore had come to know, a letter from the author being passed to her almost every Saturday morning from the postman to forward to the young woman in her charge.

Mrs Blackmore settled at the table, shaking out the napkin arranged at her place and laying it across her lap, when the crash of metal against china filled the room, the raucous chatter of the girls silenced as they turned towards the source of the interruption; Anne pale and trembling, her eyes wide and glassy, her hand limp. The shaft of the butter knife curled in her grip slipped free and landed atop her saucer; the teacup settled on it tumbling to the floor and the pretty patterned porcelain smashing against the tiles, breaking into fragile fragments.

The party watched in rapt awe as Anne got to her feet abruptly, her chair clattering to the ground behind her, before turning on her heel and fleeing from the room, the steady _thump, thump, thump_ of her feet fading as she raced up the hallway and to the stairs, Diana calling after her.

Anne reached the bottom of the staircase, her legs suddenly shaking as though they were too weak to hold her weight, and she stumbled, her body slumping against the wall and sending the large oil painting of a vase of azaleas hung in a gilded frame askew, the portrait crashing to the ground. She didn’t stop though. She didn’t pause to wait for Mrs Blackmore to appear like a banshee, her pale face and high-necked frilled blouse peeking around the banister, cold fury on her features as she noticed the shards of glass strewn across the stairs, light scratches visible in the stained wood.

She continued on, though it was a feat, her vision blurred, her head dizzy. Was she moving upwards? Was she near the top? She wasn’t sure. Her thoughts were fleeting, unordered; all thoughts but one. She needed to get home. She needed to be with him.

Her feet thundered down the hallway stopping only when she reached the heavy brown door leading to the room she shared with Diana, cursing the tremors in her hands as she attempted to find the brass handle, wrenching the door open just as she heard quick light steps on the stairs.

Diana. Coming to check in on her, no doubt. But she wasn’t to be distracted from her task. She had to get back to Green Gables. And it had to be today.

Anne reached for the leather case she stored at the top of her wardrobe, dragging it from its shelf in a cloud of dust and throwing it onto her bed, fumbling fingers unclasping the brass locks. She flung open the doors to her wardrobe, pulling crisp, cotton blouses and woollen skirts clumsily from the hangers, leaving behind her lace shawl and her neat, tailored jackets. She had no need for them; packing only what was warm and practical. Enough for a few days. She wouldn’t have time for laundry, of that she was sure.

“Anne?” Diana questioned, entering the room and stilling immediately, a furrow to her brow as she surveyed the scene before her; Anne’s suitcase on the bed, thrown open and filled with pale cotton and dark wools, Anne pushing her hair back from her face with trembling hands, her face smeared with tears, glistening in the weak winter morning sunlight that streamed through the windows and illuminated the dust mites that danced through the air.

“Anne, where are you going?” she probed, her voice steady and even, knowing her bosom friend well enough to see she was distressed, her movements jerking and erratic.

“Home,” Anne answered plainly, her voice thick and choked as she dropped to her knees beside her bed, thrusting her hand beneath the mattress and groping around blindly for the rough woollen sock Matthew had given her at the end of the summer, weighty with coins intended to be used for a train fare home.

“Anne, you can’t just leave. You have nobody to chaperone you. What would people say?”

Anne huffed, sitting back on her hunkers momentarily to cast Diana a withering stare. “I don’t _care_ what people have to say, Diana. I _need_ to get home.”

“But why?” Diana urged, her eyes widening as Anne dragged an old sock from beneath her mattress, groaning frustratedly as the wool snagged against her bedframe, sending a mass of bronze coins scattering across the floorboards, rolling across the room.

Anne’s shoulders slumped defeatedly as she pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, her breath hitching as a shuddering sob escaped her lips. She reached out, her hand grasping a crumpled piece of parchment that lay amongst the clothes on her bed, drawing it to her and reading it once more as a large tear traced the curve of her cheek, dropping from her chin and splashing against the cream paper, the salty fluid mingling with the jet-black ink and blotting his name. His glorious, glorious name. A name she feared she would never call again.

Anne thrust the letter outwards as Diana rounded the bed, eyeing Anne warily as she reached for it, smoothing the crumpled page between her fingers, the ink smudged slightly where Anne’s tears had stained the paper, the curling letters of a name distorted and uneven. Diana felt her throat go dry; her heart hammer in her chest.

_My Dearest Anne,_

_I have attempted to write this letter many times this week and have always found it impossible to begin. After a lengthy discussion with both Sebastian and Rachel, we had decided it better to keep this news to ourselves before we heard at last from the doctor, a most unfortunate visit which took place earlier this afternoon, after Bash had rode out to Bright River to catch the morning train to Charlottetown to fetch the good doctor that attended to Mary there. He felt the personal connection he had with him would ensure the doctor accompanied him back to Avonlea straight away, whereas the doctor in Carmody may hesitate to arrive. And this is a matter of grave urgency. I fear time is not on our side._

_Oh dear, and there I go, rambling once more as I attempt to stall what must be said. It is impervious that you know, my dear Anne, that we are to be dressed in black again soon. Dr Ward has informed us that we may have the week, if we are so lucky, and I am to be the bearer of this terrible news._

_Your Gilbert Blythe is dying, Anne. Typhoid fever has taken him, his roommate escorting him back from Toronto while he was still well enough to travel. He asked about you, in those early days, admitting regretfully that he didn’t take up a correspondence, fearful he would never receive a reply._

_“Fiddlesticks,” I said. “Why, our Anne is so fond of you!”_

_And, of course, I didn’t share your secret, dear Anne, although I feel it may have brought him some comfort, with how his eyes lit up when we spoke of you._

_He deteriorated rapidly after that; us losing him to delirium and a fever that will not break. It is only a matter of time now until he will join his dear mother and father, and our much-missed Mary, again._

_How I wish I was able to tell you this in person, Anne - face-to-face over the scrubbed table in our kitchen - instead of this cold and unfeeling way. I hope you feel the hug sent with this letter, the soft kiss I have enclosed with it._

_It has been a difficult some weeks for us all and the worst is to come yet. Dear God, bless his soul._

_All my love, forever and a day,_

_Marilla_

“Anne…” Diana breathed, her rasping voice slicing through the deathly silence in the room, disturbed only by juddering breaths and muffled cries, Anne crumpled on the floor, a house of cards folding in on itself, her arms wrapped protectively around her middle; one hand pressing into her heart as her tears flowed freely down her beautiful face. Diana felt her eyes sting; she had never seen Anne like this – had never felt it herself. Heartbreak. Searing heartbreak, like the splitting of the veil in the temple on the day our Lord was murdered.

“I need to see him, Diana,” she choked, her words punctuated with sharp, gasping sobs. “I can’t let that day at Ms Stacy’s be the last time I see him…I see him in all his glory. For all he is.” 

She pressed her fingers into her red-rimmed eyes, before clamping one hand across her mouth to smother a sob as the other girls raced up the stairs, still giggling from their conversation at breakfast; retreating into Tillie and Ruby’s room to style their hair and pinch their cheeks until they glowed a rosy pink, just in time for their suitors to arrive; all oblivious to Anne’s plight in the room next door. To how her love – the person she held closest to her heart, was taking his last breaths. To how she felt herself struggling for oxygen along with him – how she could feel the life in her diminish as his did.

“Diana,” she whispered, tensing her shoulders as her hands fell to her lap. Anne stared at them. They were hands he had held, but she wouldn’t feel his warm grasp again. They would remain cold to his touch forever more. “I’m still in love with him.”

Diana nodded thoughtfully, moving back to the bed and folding Anne’s few blouses neatly, placing them back into the case and snapping the lid closed, her fingers fastening the locks deftly.

“Then we need to get you to the train station. Perhaps you could still make the afternoon train.”

**********

The journey home had been long. Longer than usual, Anne attempting to pass her time by reading but finding that Mr Darcy’s haughty countenance morphed, the jet black hair and Roman nose she conjured in her mind transforming into wild curls and a splendid chin; warm hazel eyes that she found herself getting lost in more times than she cared to admit. She had been so foolish then; so uncertain of what his gaze meant and how is had the power to warm her skin, drawing a flush to her cheeks, and cause her body to tremble, goosepimples dancing across the surface of her skin as though a sharp winter chill had blown, all at the same time. There was romance in his eyes; she remembered Ruby telling her that, although she feared to believe it, especially after the events that fateful summer night, when he had arrived to their celebration, pacing and confused, seeking advice from her when her mind was fogged in the haze of moonshine. She was certain she knew what he meant; the weight his words had, but perhaps she hadn’t. He had chosen Winifred, hadn’t he? He had left Avonlea for the girl with the angel curls.

That was until she had heard their engagement had fallen through; the circumstances that led to it still a mystery to Anne. She had considered writing to Bash to ask for his Toronto address but decided against it. If he wished to speak to her, he knew where she was, she thought, her nose upturned haughtily when the mail arrived each morning, her friends sighing at the sentiments written to them by their lovers. Anne buried her nose into a book, her expression aloof when the others asked if she were to answer Roy Gardner.

“Not if he were the last man on earth,” she had declared, although Diana smiled at her knowingly. Anne acted brave before the others, declaring herself to be the ‘Bride of Adventure’, but Diana knew her better than most. Diana was the only one privy to the silent tears she shed at night, Diana climbing from her bed, her feet cold against the floorboards as she moved across the room, drawing back Anne’s quilt just enough to slip in beside her, drawing her close to her, Anne’s head resting against her heart as Diana smoothed her hair back from her brow comfortingly.

“There, there,” she would whisper, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “It will pass, Anne. It will pass.”

But late summer turned into autumn, and autumn turned into winter, and it still had not passed. Anne’s heart still beat for him; her eyes still searching for him in crowds, her pulse racing as she glimpsed a boy with dark curls much like his, or a deep voice that made her ears strain, her head swivelling to and fro as she sought out the speaker, but it was never him.

He was lost to her. He had seemingly moved on, the latter solidified further when news arrived in the form of a letter addressed to Miss Jane Andrews on a Tuesday morning, her sister detailing to her some gossip she had heard from a good friend in Toronto who was studying human biology in the school of medicine there.

“Oh, what scandal!” Jane had cried, her eyes dancing mischievously as she leant across the table, dropping her voice a decibel as though the boy she gossiped about was about to stride into the room suddenly. “Gilbert Blythe is to be courting someone new. A Miss Christine Stewart from Whitesands who has accompanied her brother to Toronto as he attends university there. Apparently she is divinely beautiful and they make quite the handsome pair.” Jane paused, glancing around her friends with a self-satisfied smirk as they giggled, Anne’s laughter sounding forced to her own ears, before she continued. “I dare say our Mr Blythe is making _quite_ the name for himself as a man-about-town. He has courted two ladies now, in under a year no less!”

The laughter of the girls in Anne’s memory dissolved with the whistle of the steam engine as it slowed, approaching the station at Bright River. Anne had to admit, she had not thought this far ahead; her journey had been impulsive, she and Diana packing her cases hastily, gathering up the scattered coins and bidding farewell to the girls, informing them that someone had fallen ill at home and she was needed to attend to them. Her friends had hugged her in turn, wishing Matthew and Marilla good health as Anne left, she and Diana racing through the streets to meet the afternoon train in time. They arrived at the station sweating and breathless, Diana paying for a single ticket and embracing Anne tightly on the platform.

“How I wish I was going with you,” she murmured into Anne’s hair as they hugged, before drawing back and wiping a rogue tear from Anne’s cheek. “Be brave, Anne. He needs bravery now.”

Anne nodded curtly, swallowing thickly as Diana turned from her, calling to a porter in a neat navy suit and cap to assist Anne with her luggage, the man scurrying to their sides and tipping his cap to Diana before lumbering off with Anne’s case, Anne informing him that she would prefer to keep her carpet bag with her, her novel and the old sock filled with money stowed safely inside. She stepped onto the train, turning to wave to Diana just as the train drew out of the station, blowing her friend a kiss as she disappeared into a haze of grey curling smoke.

And then she found her seat, and that was where she had remained for the journey, pressed against the window beside a portly woman in a tightly drawn corset, the buttons of her blouse straining to contain her ample bosom, a large feathered hat pinned to her head. She attempted to engage Anne in conversation, asking why one so young travelled alone, enquiring of what she read, but Anne ignored her, too preoccupied with her own thoughts to pay heed to the idle talk of a stranger.

Instead, she thought of him; of what he looked like. Of who was with him, a cold queasiness settling in the pit of her stomach when she realised she didn’t know if he was accompanied by anyone else; a feminine friend attending his sick bed each day, reading to him in a sweet voice as he mumbled in his fevered state. She felt her body chill; it didn’t do well to imagine him like that, she reasoned. She had to remain positive. Her sun was still in the sky while he was still breathing; her earth rotating while his heart still beat in his chest.

She snapped her book shut, the other passengers standing, stretching travel weary limbs before reaching for cases in overhead bays, women gathering up the children they travelled with, counting each one before declaring, “Off we get, dear ones!” Anne smiled apologetically at her travel companion, squeezing past her and ambling down the compartment until she reached the door, stepping down the steps and onto the platform. She sought her case, finding it easily, one of the first to be tossed onto the flagstones from the luggage compartment, and she lugged it towards a bench, sitting for a moment to plan her next move. She had made it this far but was unable to get much further without some assistance. Avonlea was still just under an hour’s journey from Bright River and would be too long for her to walk in her heeled boots, the tightly laced leather rubbing blisters onto the tender skin of her ankles.

She remained seated, watching as the crowd on the platform began to thin, passengers moving through the station and out towards the town. She thought that seemed a reasonable thing to do. Perhaps she would meet a kind face who would lend her a horse. She was able to pay for the use of it, and, although her case would be too awkward to carry with her, she could stuff her belongings into a saddle bag and take them with her, for all she was carrying. Determined once more, she stood and marched through the station, out into the chilly winter air on the other side, no longer warmed with the steam from the engines. She drew her coat around her once more, readjusting her hand around the handle of her case, and with a determined step, she began her walk towards the town. Her feet moved quickly, the red earth of the road hardened with frost below her boots, her nose growing as red as a ruby in the winter wind.

Carts rumbled past, gruff men grunting “G’afternoon” to her from their seat as the front, tipping their hats before flicking a whip against the flank of their mare, the horse whinnying before trotting at a faster pace, leaving Anne behind in a cloud of dust until a carriage drew up beside her, a familiar face appearing in the window, her button nose pressed against the glass as she peered at Anne with her rounded eyes. The door to the carriage opened with a click and Mr Barry stepped from it, Minnie May calling to Anne excitedly from her seat inside.

“Anne?” Mr Barry questioned, taking in her appearance, her hair loosely braided, the thick plait falling over her shoulder, wild, loose tendrils escaping from her knitted hat. Her scarf was wound tightly around her neck, her blue woollen coat skimming across her hips and darkening into a deep navy skirt, the hem muddied from her walk. His eyes snapped back to her face, squinting with concern as his brow furrowed. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here? Walking, no less?”

“I have to get home as a matter of urgency, Mr Barry,” Anne explained hurriedly. “I received some news this morning that required me to return to Avonlea. I’m just on my way to Bright River to hire a horse.”

Mr Barry chuckled, the edge in Anne’s voice, the fragile quaver in her speech, going unnoticed. “A horse?” he laughed. “You’ll do no such thing! It just so happens Minnie May and I are on our way home. You’ll accompany us.”

“Oh, I’m so grateful to you, Mr Barry,” Anne gushed, relieved that the journey would be cut short; that she would be with Gilbert sooner than she anticipated. She slid her case into the cabin, hoisting herself into the carriage and settling beside Minnie May who eyed her curiously.

“Your face is very red,” the little girl observed, her little nose scrunched as she regarded Anne through her dark eyes. “Have you been crying?”

“Not at all,” Anne laughed but the sound was hollow, echoing around the miniature space. She coughed awkwardly, shifting in her seat before turning towards the window, feeling hot under the Barrys’ scrutinising gazes. “I’m tired, is all.”

The road from Bright River was short by carriage, the Barrys’ pair of prized stallions galloping through the Avenue not thirty-five minutes later, Anne smiling softly at the trees that lined the road. Their white blossoms disappeared for the winter but in her mind’s eye she could see it in all its glory, great white heads bobbing lightly in the breeze, as delicate as the lace of a bridal veil.

“Welcome home, Anne,” Mr Barry quipped, smiling brightly as he watched her eyes soften at the familiarity around her; the harsh lines etched around her mouth softening into the warm smile that he and his wife new so well, Anne like a third daughter to them, her visits to Orchard Slope so regular.

They rounded the Lake of Shining Waters, the carriage rattling through Avonlea until the slope that led to Green Gables became visible, the horses slowing as they cantered up the slight hill, and Anne gasped as she spotted Jerry run from the barn, his hand lifted in a wave as he made his way to the gate, lifting the old horse-shoe that fastened it in place and staring curiously as the carriage passed through, halting before him before the door flung open, a flurry of blue and red barrelling from inside and racing towards him, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Jerry!” she cried, and he laughed, winded still from the surprise.

“Anne, whatever are you doing here?”

She drew away from him, her face suddenly serious. “Marilla sent me a letter, Jerry and I – I have to be here. I need to be with him when…” She trailed off, her voice quiet and her eyes glassy. “When it happens,” she concluded.

Jerry nodded; his lips pursed as he eyed Anne. He had known, of course, how she felt about him. He had been at Green Gables too long, had been privy to too many “accidental” meetings on their porch steps, Gilbert wandering to Green Gables with a random request for Matthew or Marilla and forgetting what it was when he arrived.

“Oh, uhm,” he would mumble, his eyes snapping from Anne and towards Marilla, who waited with an expectant smile. “Ah, what _was_ it that Mary needed again? Oh yes, a pan! She needs a pan.”

And Marilla and Matthew would share a knowing look, Jerry smothering a laugh behind his hand as he and Anne gazed at each other. He knew it from the very first day he met Gilbert, Jerry about to wrestle him to the ground, mistaking him for an attacker, the socket of Jerry’s eye still throbbing and bruised from where he had been kicked. But there was a tenderness to the young man’s eyes, Gilbert staring at Anne as though she were the moon on a clear night; something mighty and majestic; more beautiful than the sun and her stars combined.

“Let’s get you inside,” Jerry suggested, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tipping his cap to Mr Barry, pausing only briefly to lift her suitcase from the path with his free hand.

“Where are Matthew and Marilla?” Anne questioned, noting the house was dark, the lamps cold and the range not yet set, Matthews work boots missing from the box by the door, but the old man nowhere to be seen.

“They are at the Blythes’,” Jerry explained. “Matthew has offered to help tend the land while Bash is… “ He coughed awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other as he fixed Anne with a knowing look. “... Busy. He is still working when he can. And Elijah has gone to assist the Lynde’s with the harvesting of the winter crops. Marilla thinks it reminds him too much of his mother, having the doctor around. They will both be back soon.”

“Should I go to them?” she asked, her steps slowing as though she was ready to turn and flee if he gave her an affirmative answer.

“Anne,” he soothed, “they will be back soon. You’ll be exhausted. Let’s get you unpacked and fed. You’ll feel more ready to see him after a good night's sleep.”

Anne nodded, supposing Jerry was right. He opened the screen door, stepping aside to allow Anne to pass the threshold before him. She glanced around the cool kitchen; her breath visible in the damp air; a cloud of white smoke before her. It was fitting, she mused, that the kitchen be so cold and unhomely when she arrived back to it. She wasn’t here for a family visit. This week would bring about something terrible; something she was not ready for. It was going to be uncomfortable. The eery silence and chilly atmosphere of the house felt like foreshadowing; the icy grip of death looming over them all, ready to claim one more.

Anne felt her eyes sting once more, blinking rapidly so as to not alarm Jerry with her sudden display of emotion. She wanted that to be private; when it was just her and her Snow Queen and her dear gable room, the door closed against the world as she wailed and raged and cried until she was so spent that she collapsed into a fitful sleep.

“Jerry?”

“Hmm?”

He stilled in the doorway, having left Anne’s case in the centre of the room. Anne inhaled deeply.

“Have you… Did you see him?”

Jerry shook his head, nibbling at a fingernail pensively before drawing his hand away. “But Marilla has told me about him. He spoke of you, she said, when he was fitting. He called out your name.”

Anne felt her heart constrict in her chest; her lips pressed together as a fresh wave of emotion overcame her. He had called for her. For _her;_ his old school friend and rival. In his final days, as his logical brain spiralled into bouts of deliria and fits caused by his fever, he had been thinking of her; tenderly, she wondered, as she thought of him?

“Thank you, Jerry,” she whispered, fearful that if she spoke any louder her voice would crack; it would give away her heartache. Jerry nodded, taking his leave from Anne, the screen door closing with a clatter, leaving Anne alone in the dimly lit kitchen.

She kept herself busy, lighting lamps and setting the fire before heaving the heavy sack of potatoes from the pantry, peeling them methodically, counting the strips of skin that sheaved from the vegetable in her head so as to distract herself, tossing them into a pot with large chunks of carrot and celery and some beef cheek, setting the stew to boil. And when all was done, the house still quiet, she sighed, carrying her suitcase up to her room slowly, her steps echoing on the oiled floorboards, the stairs creaking in all the right places as she climbed them.

Her room had remained untouched since she left it, her trinkets still upon the dresser; the old shell she had once found, a pretty piece of bark and a small glass vase, now empty. Her cream crochet blanket was still pulled taut over her bed, the stub of a candle in the brass candlestick, the yellowed wax pooled in a hard lump at the wide base from when it was last lit. Her old school readers still sat, stacked beside her headboard, her slate tucked behind them.

Anne sat her case at her feet, lifting the slate and smoothing her hand across it. It wasn’t the weapon she had used, of course, the slate with the crack across it now used by Jerry’s youngest sister, however Anne felt herself smile as she remembered her very first day, Gilbert’s hand on her braid, her temper flaring like a tongue of fire lapping at a timber framed home, slow at first and then catching, engulfing her whole, the word “Carrots!” causing her to leap from her seat and swing her slate towards him.

She hadn’t intended to hurt him. It had been self-defence – something ingrained into her after years of being pushed around; of knowing the wrong end of a belt all too often, the stinging pain as the leather or buckle welted her skin. But he had borne her temper, like he often did, with a smirk.

Little did that boy and girl, standing in the schoolhouse on a late September day, know that in just a few short years one was to be hopelessly in love with the other as he was drawing his final breaths. Little did that Anne know, that little Anne with her fiery temper and flowered hat, that she would lose her heart with him. That her life felt purposeless without him in it. That, despite all her plans and dreams – to write and to teach – he was a dream that was consistent in it all. Him by her side; her with his name. Lifemates. Anne’s romantical heart had still hoped beyond hope that he would change his mind. That Christine Stewart would melt into his past, just as Winifred Rose had done, and that he would appear at her boarding house, out of breath from his run from the train, his feelings for her too strong to be fought with much longer. And perhaps, she thought sadly, he would still be with her; glinting at her from the sky like her parents were. Shining stars in the dark of the night that she whispered to.

Anne could picture herself now, dressed in her loose, cotton nightgown, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders as her feet padded to the window, the stars above drenching everything below them in silvery starlight, like a kiss from a loved one, Anne’s skin glowing ivory. “ _Goodnight Walter. Goodnight Bertha,”_ she would say, pressing her fingers to her lips and blowing them a kiss, and then her hand would find her heart, although it would no longer be there. It would be buried in the plot outside the stone house the Lacroix’s lived in. It would be with Gilbert. And she would search for the brightest star in the sky, for that’s which one he would be, and she would whisper, “ _And goodnight Gilbert. I love you.”_

And with that thought, she felt herself dissolve, the tears she had buried deep within her bursting forth from her eyes as she fell onto her bed, her heart aching painfully in her chest.

And that was where she stayed, until sleep crept into her room and claimed her.

**********

Anne awoke with a start the next morning, at the crowing of the cockerel outside her window, and she startled as her eyes adjusted to her surroundings, forgetting for a moment where she was. No shock of black hair spilt across the silk pillowcase on the bed opposite her, dark wooden wardrobe to her left, and large sash window to her right. Instead, she was back in her gable room, under the rough sheets that smelt like lavender soap and home, her Snow Queen, her blossoms disappeared for the winter, outside her window, her finger-like branches tapping against the glass in the early morning wind.

She stretched, rubbing the sleep from her swollen eyes, her mind still hazy with sleep, of a terrible dream she had in which Gilbert Blythe was dying and…

Anne threw herself forward, sitting bolt upright, throwing back the blankets and clambering from her bed, still in her skirt and blouse from the day before, her boots now unlaced and set neatly by the door. Marilla must have come in in the night, seeing her hat on the hooks by the door and knowing she had arrived home.

She dressed quickly, her fingers fumbling on the dainty buttons of her blouse, tucking it haphazardly into the waistband of her bottle-green skirt, before looping her heavy leather belt around her waist. She forwent her heeled boots, instead rooting through the contents of her case to find the sturdy brown leather boots she wore to Avonlea school everyday, the soles worn smooth but the leather broken in just so. They would be more practical, easier to move in. She would be on her feet all day today, helping where she could, pressing Gilbert’s head with a cold compress and washing Dellie’s bibs in a steaming pot on the stove, boiling kettle upon kettle of water for the men to bathe in when they returned from the fields. It wasn’t much, but it was all she could do. Ensure the house was still running and stay as close to Gilbert as she could, in case the worst came. At least she would be there. She would be with him as he slipped from one world to the next.

The thought terrified her. She had seen death before; Mr Hammond dropping dead right before her. She had experienced grief too, after her beloved Mary passed. But this felt different. Unnatural. She was bound to Gilbert Blythe, her heart tethered to his by some invisible string, and she knew not even death could sever it. It was too strong; enchanted by the depth of her love. Something as cold and unfeeling as death could never diminish her feelings for him. She would love him until it was her turn; until she crossed to the next realm and reunited with her parents, dear Mary, Aunt Jo’s Gertrude, and Gilbert. Dear Gilbert, as handsome as ever; his chin still as splendid, his mouth still twisted into that secret smile that seemed to appear just for her.

She pressed her hand to her lips, her eyes fluttering closed as she composed herself, inhaling deeply to suppress the bubbling grief she felt rise in her chest, before standing abruptly and making her way to the kitchen below, Marilla’s clipped steps audible from the stairs, the smell of toasting bread and sweet plum jam in the air, the kettle bubbling over the fire in the hearth.

“Anne.” Marilla stilled as she spotted her daughter at the foot of the stairs. “My heavens, child, what are you doing awake and dressed already. You must be exhausted. Yesterday was a draining day, I’m sure, in more ways than one.” She lifted a tea towel from a hook at the side of the fireplace, wrapping it around the handle of the large black kettle and hoisting it from the fire, placing it on the table. “Now, I dare say you are hungry, so I prepared extra breakfast. We have toast and jam, some apples from Bash, tea and…”

“Marilla,” Anne interrupted and Marilla’s head snapped upwards, her gaze meeting Anne’s. “I just want to see him. We don’t have much time left.”

Marilla noted the look in her eyes; the aching grief of losing your love. Marilla knew what that felt like. She had lost her love long before, although his heart still beating when he left her, his blood was still warm in his body.

She nodded. “Very well. Grab something for the road and wrap up warm. I’ll get Matthew to ready the buggy.”

Marilla wrapped her cardigan around her narrow frame and vacated the room in a flurry of rustling petticoats and clacking heels, leaving Anne alone once more, buttering a piece of toast and raising it to her lips before she lowered it once more. She hadn’t had much of an appetite for eating, and the smell of the sticky jam left her feeling ill, her stomach roiling inside her. She poured tea inside, swallowing the scalding liquid in three gulps as Marilla returned.

“Bring a shawl Anne and help me pack these baskets with some provisions.” She handed Anne a wicker basket from the pantry and the two went about filling it with jars of jam (“To keep up everyone’s energy,” Marilla explained), some clothes and some floury scones, still warm from the oven.

“We can’t do much, but we can feed them,” Marilla reasoned as she ushered Anne from the kitchen and led her to the buggy, Belle reined to it already, Matthew standing by her, his hand smoothing over her glossy chestnut flank.

“Quick like a bunny, now,” Marilla urged as Anne stopped by Matthew, his calloused hand catching hers and his thumb rubbing against her skin. He smiled knowingly at Anne; a sad, lopsided smile, his kind blue eyes watery. A smile that Anne took to mean, “I’m sorry,” and, “I love you,” and Anne nodded in return, a nod that meant, “I know,” before clambering up onto the bench beside Marilla, who tutted lowly, the mare keening slightly before taking off at a trot, moving through the gates slowly, Green Gables disappearing behind them as they neared the Blythe house, the sloping stone walls and jolly red door visible from the road, Elijah racing from the barn as Belle slowed to a halt on the path at the foot of the garden.

“Elijah, any news?” Marilla asked, a worried tremor to her voice, as he helped the older woman from the buggy, Anne clambering down from the other side.

“No change from yesterday,” he answered with a regretful nod. “We’re still praying for a miracle.”

“As we all are,” Marilla admitted, her voice clipped, although Anne could see the quiver in her bottom lip as she spoke. She turned, reaching for her basket. “Well, no news is good news in instances such as this.” Anne stared, the change in Marilla so marked from that first sentiment, her face hardened so as to protect herself, to not show too much of her heart. Anne knew how fond her mother was of Gilbert, the softness to her smile when she spoke to him; as though he was the son she never had, and Anne supposed, in a way, he was. He was bound to Anne, and therefore to Marilla. They were a family; the Cuthberts and Blythe-Lacroixs, celebrating holidays at the homes of the other; sharing in each other’s joys, shouldering each other’s heartbreaks.

“Elijah, this is my daughter, Anne,” Marilla stated, moving around the buggy to stand by her side. “She has come home to assist us. She and Gilbert were very dear friends.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Anne nodded, fingering at her skirt distractedly, desperate to escape this façade of propriety and race to the house, to the upstairs bedroom she knew he would be laying in.

“Likewise,” Elijah replied, nodding curtly. “I won’t keep you further.”

Anne felt herself release a breath, watching as Elijah led Belle towards their barn, now free of the buggy, before she spun on her heel and ran up the sloping hill that led to the porch, her long skirts gathered in her fist to prevent her tripping on her hems. She was breathless when she reached the house, her lungs gasping from the icy air she had inhaled. She didn’t wait to knock, to be invited in. Instead she swung the door open, enveloped suddenly with the intense warmth of the kitchen as Marilla came behind her.

“Anne, my, what a surprise,” came a voice, the short stout figure of Mrs Lynde bustling around the table, her movements quick for a woman of her stature. “We weren’t expecting you home, were we Marilla?”

“She arrived yesterday evening,” Marilla explained, placing her basket upon the table, “although, I dare say we would have needed to have fought her off to keep her away.”

Anne stood by the doorway still, ghost white and confused, the two women before her bantering as they always did, the house still lively and warm, Hazel’s singing audible from the room down the hall, Dellie’s sweet, gurgling laughter, light and joyful. It felt like their home always felt, not like the house of a dying man.

“Well, don’t stand there like a statue. Come here and give your Aunt Rachel a hug,” Rachel insisted, Anne moving to her, allowing herself to be enveloped in her short arms, crushed against her bosom. “Terrible business this, isn’t it? Not at all natural. Young man, cut short in his prime. A crying shame, I say…”

She sniffled loudly as Marilla eyed her warningly. “Rachel, we talked about this.”

“Oh.” Her face coloured, glancing towards Anne, a pitiful look to her face, the corners of her mouth downturned. “Oh, you poor dear,” she clucked. “It really is a pity.” She quirked Anne’s cheek as Anne felt her mouth tug into what she hoped looked like a smile. “Would you like to see him?”

Anne swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, her stomach bubbling with nerves. She wanted to see him. She was certain she did, but she felt underprepared; unsure of what she was to find. Would he still look like himself? Would he still look like the boy she fell in love with, his shoulders perhaps broader and his cheekbones sharper after a few months devoid of Hazel’s cooking? Or would he be changed - a waxiness to his skin, his breath rattling in his chest?

She followed Mrs Lynde slowly down the passage and up the stairs, each step heavier, more laboured as they drew closer to his room; the atmosphere changing as they neared the summit. The steaming warmth from the kitchen and the smell of freshly toasted bread gave way to a cloying heaviness, the air cool, a sickly scent lingering in it.

“Is it not too cool up here for him?” she asked innocently. Sick people always needed heat, didn’t they? Marilla always wrapped her in a blanket, dropping a kiss to her crown and whispering, “Now, we will sweat that fever out of you,” as she drew the curtains.

“Doctor’s orders,” Rachel retorted, taking a left at the top of the stairs and pacing towards the room at the end of the hallway. “He has a fever but not much time left. We were told to make him comfortable and that was all.”

Rachel spoke like a matron, like a woman who had seen much illness in her life and was hardened to it now; unable to remember the pain of a person’s first brushes with grief. The heartache that came with losing a most beloved kindred spirit and soulmate. She stopped outside his bedroom door, pausing momentarily to glance at Anne before swinging the door open, Bash glancing over his shoulder briefly before springing to his feet, his eyes wide with surprise at seeing Anne in the doorway.

Anne stared back, blinking slowly as her gaze moved from Bash, dark rings around his eyes, a weary slope to his shoulders, to the figure on the bed. She felt her breath hitch as she took him in. Gilbert. Her Gilbert, his eyes closed as though he slept, his dark lashes sweeping across his cheekbones like two half moons, the colour contrasting with his sallow skin; pale as parchment and lifeless, except for the speckling of an angry red rash blemishing his complexion. His hair was unkempt, more unruly than usual, the shock of dark hair almost black against his pale, cream pillowcase, smoothed back from his head.

“Look who came to see you, Blythe,” Bash said, to no-one really, the figure on the bed unmoved by his words; no flicker of recognition or quirk on his mouth. No twitch of his fingers. Just a lifeless body gasping for air. “Your Anne, all the way from Charlottetown.”

Anne moved instinctually, not stopping to question what Bash had meant by “ _Your Anne”;_ her movements only ceasing when she hovered above him, tears gathering once more at her lashes as she stared down at him, watching carefully as his chest rose and fell with each laboured breath, his lips parted only slightly, the skin dry and cracked.

“Sit down, Anne,” Bash whispered, moving the wooden chair he had been settled on behind her and guiding her backwards until she fell into the seat with a thud, her eyes wide and confused. “I know this is a shock.”

Anne shook her head, her mind reeling with confusion, not understanding what was happening. He looked so peaceful; lost in a dreamland where everything was beautiful and white. Bright angel wings and castles in the clouds; enchantment and amazement, a brief escape, until his eyes opened once more and he rose from bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and beginning a new day.

“He’s…” she began, her voice high and breathless, panicked and incredulous. She dragged her eyes from Gilbert, raising her face to meet Bash’s gaze. “He’s only sleeping. He’s – It’s just… He’s _sleeping_!”

She sounded ridiculous; she knew she did. Her mouth babbling nonsense, her body fighting fitfully against Bash as he pressed his hands into her shoulders, attempting to stop her from flinging forward, taking Gilbert’s shoulders in her own hands and shaking him until he awoke, a surprised look to his face when his eyes flickered open and he saw her before him, before his mouth melted into a smile and rounded in that delectable way it did; “ _Anne.”_

“Anne!” Bash urged; his voice thick with unshed tears. “Anne, he’s dying…. He’s dying.”

And suddenly the room was filled with a loud keening wail that startled her, her body shaking uncontrollably when she realised the sound ripped from her; came from her lungs, her chest burning with the effort. Bash fell to his knees beside her, drawing her to him in a tight embrace, his shoulders shuddering as he sobbed, Anne’s own tears tasting her lips and mingling with Bash’s as he hugged her close.

And that was how they stayed, Anne bundled into Bash’s arms, her body wracked with sobs, Marilla and Hazel taking turns to come to the room, replacing their cold tea with a steaming new cup, bringing a fresh cold compress for Gilbert’s head, refilling the pitcher of water in the room that they poured sups of water from, raising a tin cup to his mouth to wet his lips.

But the coming and going went unnoticed by the two locked in an embrace, Anne’s sobs eventually subsiding, quieting down into ragged, shuddering breaths. Bash drew back from her, his thumbs coming to her cheeks to brush away the tears, before fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief and passing it to her. She took it gratefully, whispering a “Thank you,” to him as he stood once more, glancing back at his younger brother.

“He felt so much in life,” Bash began, “It’s odd to see him like this now. Unfeeling. It’s like we’ve lost him already, before he’s even gone. ”

“How long has he been like this?” Anne asked, her voice weak, her throat pained from her loud cries.

“Two days now, lying there like that, as if he’s already...” 

Bash’s voice cracked once more and Anne’s hand reached out, her fingers curling around Bash’s hand. Bash glanced down to where her hand met his and he smiled as her, taking comfort in the gesture. She was breaking as much as he was; he knew that, but somehow, she always knew what to do. Bash had wandered his home for two weeks now, Rachel’s tone clipped and formal, Marilla frazzled and weepy, his own mother patting him on the shoulder and murmuring, “There now, all will be well.” And he knew they meant well, truly he did, but their actions were cold, guarded. Anne, with her large heart, she knew how much this hurt him; not a year after burying his wife, he was to lay his brother in the ground beside her.

Anne swallowed once more, forcing her lips into a smile. “Why don’t you take a break? I’ll sit with him for a while.”

“No, no I couldn’t ask you to…” Bash argued but Anne held up her hand to silence him.

“Please, Bash.” He nodded reluctantly.

“Call for me straight away if anything changes,” he ordered, before moving to leave the room, content by Anne’s nod that she would follow his instructions.

“Bash,” she called suddenly, twisting in her seat, her fingers wrapping around the rungs on the back of the old chair. Bash stilled, glancing towards her, her eyes wide and uncertain. “Can he hear us?” she asked, and Bash shrugged in response.

“Dr Ward isn’t sure he can, but I read to him anyway,” he nodded towards the book that lay at the foot of Gilbert’s bed, “and I talk to him. It’s quiet up here if I don’t. Gives me too much time to think.”

He smiled sadly, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards, before slipping from the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving Anne and Gilbert alone, enshrouded in silence and the clammy scent of sickness.

Anne shifted awkwardly in her seat, readjusting her skirts around her knees before allowing her gaze to rest on him again. “Hello, Gilbert,” she whispered, drawing a blush to her cheeks at how formal she sounded; the skin heating further at the realisation that he couldn’t see her and most likely couldn’t hear her either. There was no need for her to be embarrassed.

She opened her mouth to speak again before shutting it once more. “My goodness,” she declared. “I’m not at all sure what to say.” She laughed lightly, the reddened rims of her eyes stinging once more. “You’ve rendered me speechless; would you believe? Not that you have a knack for doing that.”

The room went silent once more, Anne chewing on her lip as she surveyed around her, realising this was the first time she had been in his room before. It was much of what she would have imagined; a masculine room, the walls a dark blue, the furniture stained a deep brown, all sturdy and functional. But there were flashes of him everywhere, in the patchwork blanket that lay across his bed, Anne smiling as she imagined him wrapped in it, Mary stuffing a thermometer into his mouth and bringing him soup when he came down with a flu the year previous. There was an easy chair by the window, a stool below it, Anne picturing Gilbert easing back into the leather, escaping the arguing between Bash and Hazel that was occurring on the floor below. She glanced towards the desk, rising to her feet and pacing towards it, the floorboards creaking underfoot. The desk was filled with papers, Gilbert’s close, neat scrawl filling each page; book after book bound in leather or dark blue cloth stacked atop each other. Anne lifted the volume on the top of the pile, easing open the heavy tome and reading a page inside; _Human Anatomy._ She snapped it shut, replacing it on the desk and lifting the next, another medical textbook, to reveal a school reader beneath. She smiled fondly as she took it in her hands, turning towards Gilbert and raising it to him, although he couldn’t see.

“You’ve kept your old readers,” she stated, her voice echoing in the quiet. “I have too. Funny, isn’t it, how far we’ve come since then? You in Toronto and me in Charlottetown.” She moved back to the chair, settling into it more comfortably and opening the reader. “Who would have thought, back then, that this was where we would both be?”

She quietened, afraid to elaborate further. How many times, she wondered, had he heard people tell him he was dying? That he may not be here soon; in this house, with these people? Well, he wouldn’t hear it from her. He would be immortal to her; always with her. It was impossible to kill the immortal.

She glanced at the book on her lap, laughing as she read the poem on the page she had opened. “My, look at this. It was the poem I read on that day you returned to school. I had never asked you about Alberta. I was _much_ too afraid of what the girls might say if I spoke to you further. You and that blasted apple…” She smiled fondly at the memory, Anne sitting on her stoop by the brook, the girls peering from the window, scowling as Gilbert approached her, visible from their vantage point. “What did I say to you again?” she asked aloud. “I believe I told you to _go away._ What a sniping little thing I was, but then you weren’t much better. Much too persistent for your own good.”

She paused, staring at him, waiting for some movement; some sign he was listening. But nothing came. “Would you like to hear it once more? I daresay I performed it well the first time around but I’m sure I can do just as well now.”

She cleared her throat. “Prepare to be amazed,” she laughed before beginning, “Companion of the sea and silent air, the lonely fisher thus must ever fare; Without the comfort, hope, - with scarce a friend, He looks through life and only sees –“

She put the book down, snapping it shut and laying it on her lap. “I don’t think I’ve ever said sorry for that day, you know. So here I am, sitting before you, humbly apologising for hitting you with my slate.” She laughed wetly, tears pooling in her eyes. “I don’t know why I did it. I think I just…” She paused, remembering the girl she was then; lonely and desperate to fit in. But he had wanted her. He had made an effort with her from the start. She hadn’t needed Josie, with her sharp words and haunting taunts, or Jane and her rolling eyes and sarcastic wit. He had wanted her friendship from that very first day. She had only realised now. “I was lonely and too used to being the ‘ _freak’_ , I suppose. Too red and freckled and knock-kneed and _orphaned,_ not that you can relate to that too. Life hasn’t been too kind to us, has it?”

She reached out for his hand before pausing, drawing it away again. She was afraid to touch him, her heart hammering rapidly against her ribcage; she was afraid he would feel cold. “But it has had its moments of splendour too. Do you remember that day at townhall? When we staged our action? The excitement afterwards, all of us cheering and hugging, and you took me in your arms and for a moment I thought…” she laughed mirthlessly. “Never mind.”

She felt herself blush once more, reminiscing on that day outside town hall, Ms Stacy clapping loudly, congratulating them on a successful movement as they clung to each other, embracing tightly, Anne hugging Tillie close and spinning to find Gilbert behind her, a sheepish smile to his face.

“Well done, Anne,” he had said, his mouth quirking into a sweet, lop-sided smile, and Anne reached out for him, drawing him to her, an “oof” escaping his lips at the suddenness, and they were rigid, unsure, until Gilbert’s arms wrapped around her waist, and she felt his breath warm against her cheek, her skin exploding with goose bumps. It ended as suddenly as it happened; Anne drawing back, but Gilbert’s hands remained firmly on her waist, his gaze meeting hers, and Anne felt herself lost in his eyes; the deep swirling pools of hazel and honey warming her skin, flickering to her lips as his breath appeared to hitch in his throat. And Anne thought, just for a moment, he had leant in, until Ms Stacy’s voice sent them hurtling apart, announcing there to be a celebratory dinner at hers to the delighted whoops of her class, Gilbert shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Anne glanced around, in search of a new topic; something that didn’t feel as though it would open old wounds, or new. She glanced down at herself, humming as she thought of a new topic to discuss.

“I’m in long skirts now, you know. Quite changed from the little girl you knew during the summer. But can I confess something?” She leant forward conspiratorially, dropping her voice to a whisper. “They’re too _hot_. Layers and layers of petticoats and wool, and I keep tripping on them all the time. Not much convenient for a Bride of Adventure.” She laughed uneasily at her own joke; how she wished to be a bride. How she wished to be his bride.

“And my hair,” she continued. “I wear it up now. Not today, of course. I’m still _Carrots_ today, with these braids,” she tugged one as if to emphasise her point, “but I’ve once had scarcely any hair at all, so I suppose I can’t complain.”

She watched him again, waiting for his eyes to flicker open but still he lay, his chest rattling with each shallow breath. Instead, she stood, going to the pitcher and pouring some water into the cup, holding it to his cracked lips and tipping it just so, so a little liquid poured out, wetting his mouth and dripping down his chin.

She wiped at his face distractedly. “Drat, I wouldn’t be much good at this nursing business,” she declared, her hand stilling on his face, slipping from his chin to his cheek where she let it rest, her thumb caressing his cheekbones, the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced due to his illness. His skin was soft under her touch and she closed her eyes, sighing and imagining he was awake, raising his own hand to rest atop hers as he whispered her name in that peculiar way he did; “ _Anne”_ , as though it was the name of a valuable jewel or an artefact. As if it was the name of the most beautiful girl he had seen.

“What is she like?” she asked him. “Christine? Would she make a good nurse?” She paused, allowing him time to answer before continuing, “I hear she’s very beautiful. Is her hair a dazzling blonde? Or perhaps a glossy raven black, her eyes large and shining, their hue a pale violet? Yes, I imagine she’s rather like that. Like some storybook princess.”

She withdrew her hand from his cheek, dropping into her seat again. “I have met no one, you may as well know, although there’s a fellow in my English class, a Mr Royal Gardner and he’s… Well, he’s devastatingly handsome but a terrible bore. There’s no fun with him, or dancing or laughter. Do you remember how we used to laugh, Gilbert? On those Saturdays in your kitchen with Mary? She was always joking, ushering you out the door with your coat, but still you lingered, lifting your hand in a wave and glancing one last time at me before leaving. And you know what she would say afterwards? She would shake her head and say, “You two can’t see what’s as plain as the nose on your face.” Isn’t that curious? Of course, I know what she was referring to now. Do you?... I don’t suppose you do. Not with Christine.”

There came a gentle knock to the door, Marilla peering around the doorjamb.

“Anne, we’re leaving now. You can come back later if you wish, but Matthew requires some assistance at home.”

Anne nodded. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

She twisted in her seat once more, surveying the lifeless body before her on the bed, bundled under blankets. “I’ll be back soon, alright?”

She got to her feet, turning from him before hesitating, swivelling towards him on the heels of her boots. She stepped towards him; once, twice, until her knees were pressed against the bedframe and then she leant forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead and lingering a moment longer than she had planned, surprised to find his skin still warm, burning with his fever. She drew away abruptly, glancing over her shoulder to ensure that there was nobody in the doorway; no silent creature who had intruded upon their solace and caught them in this little act of intimacy.

“Goodbye,” she whispered, and she left from his room, lingering by the doorway a moment to watch him, his breathing still steady, constant, before closing the door behind her.

**********

Two days had passed, although to Anne it felt much longer, rising early with Matthew to aid with the early morning chores on the farm, fetching water from the pump, her bones aching in the cold, before feeding the cows and the chickens, stopping by Belle to sit upon the gate as she had done the day of the fair, a daisy in hand, plucking the delicate petals one by one and watching them drift through the air, wondering if her loved her too. She smiled at the memory as she palmed at Belle’s coat, the horse nuzzling into her hand, and Anne reminiscing on what she had said that day.

“ _Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t love me. Next to true love the best thing is unrequited love. In fact, I hope he doesn’t love me.”_

She felt a queer ache in her chest, leaning over the gate to press her forehead to the mare, sighing deeply. What had she been thinking? How she wished she could take it back!

She loved him, all of him, and she wished he had felt the same. She imagined him lying in his bed, his dark lashes swept across his cheekbones, listening to each word she said; his heart beating wildly at the sound of her voice, willing himself awake so he could draw her to him; press his lips to hers in an unexpected kiss, Anne laughing as they drew away, her hand fluttering to her mouth, still tingling from his display of his love. But of course, it was impossible. He couldn’t hear her; there had been no signs, no moan of recognition, no furrow to his brow at the sound of her voice. Just Gilbert, laying on his back as though he was slumbering, his breath shallow and laboured, that quivering rattle in his chest with each gulp.

“How could I have hoped it, Belle?” she whispered, her voice low and rasping; dry from the incessant tears she had shed. “Willed him away. If his time was to be short, I should have held him close. Spent it at his side, but now…” She smoothed her hand down the horse’s long nose. “Now, it’s much, _much,_ too late.”

The rest of her days were spent at Blythe farm, Marilla and Anne leaving Green Gables early and staying until late; caring for Dellie, Anne reading her storybooks and playing peek-a-boo until she heard Gilbert fit up the stairs, Bash’s weight on him, pressing him to the mattress to prevent him from hurting himself, Anne’s voice a forced brightness as she hoisted the little girl onto her hip and took her to the far side of the house, desperate to escape his pained moans, her chest constricting tightly, like a fist wrapped around her heart and squeezing.

She cooked with Rachel and Hazel, preparing meals for the men as they returned from the fields, Bash and Elijah both still tending their land, Matthew and Jerry joining them before Matthew took them home in the buggy. She laundered their clothes, her sleeves rolled up, her skin slick with sweat as she pushed loose tendrils of hair back from her face, taking the garments in her hands, her skin raw from the scalding water and caustic soap, and roughly rubbing them against the washboard she had propped in the tin bath, her arms growing weary and her knees painful from where she kneeled. And she was distracted, when she was busy, ignoring the uncertainty etched on each face in the house, the sharp gasps of the women when they heard a pained wail from the upstairs room. She willed them away, her imagination as strong as it had always been.

It wasn’t a cry of pain from Gilbert, a feverish fit; instead, he was a prince, thrusting his sword upwards, into the heart of a great dragon that guarded a princess in a tower, the animal wailing in anguish before it crashed to the ground slain. He wasn’t cataleptic due to a terrible fever, a horrible virus rendering him senseless; no, he had been bewitched, a poisoned apple brought to his lips, his slightly crooked teeth taking a bite of the crisp flesh before falling to the ground, only to be awoken by true love’s kiss.

And for a moment she believed it, until Bash trudged down the stairs, the rings around his eyes deeper than ever before, his jolly face sullen and gaunt, a basket of bloodied rags, nightshirts with deep red stains on them, dropped to the kitchen floor before the man slumped at the kitchen table, his elbows on his knees, his head propped in his hands, silent tears splashing against the wooden table as Marilla held his shoulders in her hands, her cheek pressed to his head as she murmured comforting words.

It was then that Anne escaped, slipping up the stairs as quietly as possible to take up her bedside vigil, the door creaking open as she crept in, shutting it gently behind her as though he was asleep and she was feared to disturb him.

“Hello again,” she would whisper as she approached him, taking her place in the rickety chair drawn beside his bed. “I miss you.”

She had overcome the awkwardness of the first time she spoke to him, chattering to him aimlessly now about school and their friends, reading him books she brought with her; _Jane Eyre_ and _Pride and Prejudice; Middlemarch._

“I think I would quite enjoy being an authoress,” she admitted to him. “Weaving a story of romance and magic, with people reading it for years to come. What a legacy it would be.”

She placed her book on her knee, leaning towards him as she spoke. “George Eliot was a woman, you know. Aunt Jo told me. How extraordinary it is that women still feel the need to hide who they truly are to be seen as equal to a man.” She laughed breathily. “Not that you ever thought like that, of course. Although, I feared you did once. Do you remember, Gilbert? That day at the fair? When poor Josie Pye…”

She stopped, the words dying in her throat as she recalled the other events of that day; the blissful happiness she felt, as though she were floating on air, after the prediction made by the fortune teller, only to plummet back to earth once more when she saw him; she saw him with _her._ Her heart ached at the memory and she smiled sadly, allowing her eyes to trace his profile; the curve of his brow, the slope of his nose, the fullness of his bottom lip, and that chin. That sharp, splendid chin.

“I fancied myself in love with you that day,” she whispered, her voice low and thick, her lips pressed into a sad smile as her vision blurred. “Could you imagine? I was still reeling over what had happened just that week. Perhaps you have forgotten it; not recalling at _all_ the dance we shared at school… But I do. I think of it often still. How perfectly happy I was… How it felt like your hand was made for mine.”

She glanced at his hand, lying atop the patchwork quilt, his palm facing upwards, the fingers curling slightly. She had been afraid to touch it, to feel it cold and lifeless. She didn’t want to spoil the memory of the first time he took her hand; Gilbert reaching across the line and taking her hand in his, spinning her unexpectedly; his face illuminated with a broad grin, his eyes twinkling mischievously. How they both stared at their intertwined hands, Anne’s gaze travelling upwards to find Gilbert’s eyes already on her face, a smile quirking at his mouth as the dance continued, Anne unable to draw hers from him. He had been a regal form that day, light on his feet, but his grip strong, protective; her hand like something small and dainty in his, held so carefully by him for fear it would break like a piece of herringbone china.

Anne drew in a shaking breath, glancing at him briefly before her eyes found his hand again, her hand moving tentatively across the gap, resting on the bed before she slipped it forward, her fingers brushing at his skin. She gasped. The skin was cool but the touch as familiar as ever; Anne flattening his fingers as her fingertips traced over his palm, feeling the callouses just below his fingers, the roughness of his work-worn skin.

“Have you ever had your fortune told before?” she asked him, silent as she awaited a reply that never came. “I have. That day at the fair.” She exhaled wearily, smiling at him as her fingers danced across his skin in featherlike touches. “But it was wrong. She told me… Well, she told me that you were to be my love. But you weren’t, were you? Not when you had Winifred. And Christine. But how I hoped…”

She laughed wetly, wiping a tear from her smudged cheek with the back of her hand. “I still do. Not that it matters now.”

The room fell silent, Anne’s fingers tracing the veins in his arm, brushing across his shoulder, smoothing the collar of his nightshirt, her teeth clamped against her bottom lip in a bite so fierce, she feared she would draw blood, a tear dripping from the end of her nose and splashing against his skin.

She chuckled thickly when she spotted it. “Oh dear,” she mumbled, “Look at me, weeping like this. What would Charlie Sloane say?” She laughed, mimicking Charlie’s deep, droll voice. “ _You’re very emotional. It may impede your ability to have children.”_ She laughed, leaning her elbows against the bed and taking his hand finally, feeling his fingers flex around hers now that Anne had no longer held them straight. She stared at him, her eyes glassy yet tender, and with her free hand she reached out to brush his curls back from his face. “You would never think that of me though, would you? Too emotional for children. Not that I dare say I shan’t have any. Not now….” She swallowed, laughing as she remembered the chaos that had ensued two mornings after Charlie had walked her home; the girls fretting outside the church, thrusting her forward, her feet fighting against the dirt as they shoved her before Gilbert, his face furrowing with confusion at why all his female schoolmates stood before him; their eyes wide with expectation.

“You’ve always given me your best, Gilbert. You’ve always been kind,” her voice quivered, cracking as she lifted their hands to her mouth, pressing a kiss against his knuckles, “and fair. And I didn’t always show you the same courtesy. I’m sorry. I really am… So, so sorry.”

She cupped his hand with hers, holding it steady against her mouth as she spoke, her breath hot against his hand. “I wish I would have told you this before. I’m sorry for that day on the train, and when I lost my temper with you over my article in the newspaper. I’m sorry I ignored your efforts on that very first day and everyday after it. We should have been _friends,_ Gilbert. We should have been better to each other. Maybe then…”

There was a gentle rap at the door and Anne dropped his hand automatically, sitting stiff in her chair as it creaked open, Marilla peering around it, Bash and Dr Ward by her side. Anne felt herself flush, wiping wildly at her eyes, although why she did she was unsure of. It had been a fruitless task, her eyes too red, too swollen, her lips swollen and cracked from where she had pressed them together; dehydrated from the salty tears she had shed.

She flushed as they watched her, Anne unsure of how long they had stood on the other side of the door, how much they had heard, she herself too preoccupied by her thoughts to have heard footsteps on the stairway, the creak of floorboards as they approached.

“Anne,” Marilla eased gently, stepping into the room and taking her hand, leading her towards the door. “The doctor is here to see Gilbert. I think it would be best if we leave these gentlemen in peace.”

Anne nodded dumbly, allowing herself to be led from him, out of his cool room and into the dark hallway, stealing one last glance before the door was shut to her, deep, male voices speaking inside.

“He’s been fitting again. Not often,” she could hear Bash say. “But mainly he sleeps.”

“That’s common,” Dr Ward replied. “Close to the end.”

Anne inhaled a sharp breath, her wild eyes snapping to Marilla, the older woman wrapping her arm tightly around her shoulders and pulling her into her side as they stepped down the stairs.

“Let’s have a break, shall we? I think we could do with a cup of tea.”

**********

Anne sat on the porch step, wrapped in her scarf and shawl, Rachel unhooking Gilbert’s red plaid jacket from the hooks by the door and insisting Anne wear it, forcing her arms into it and buttoning it up efficiently.

“To keep you warm. Goodness knows we don’t need another one of you falling sick.”

She stared out over the vista; the rolling hills in the distance, snow-capped now as December approached, the trees spindly and bare, their bark almost black with the damp winter chill. And that plot to the left of her, just visible from where she sat. She tried not to look at it, to pretend it wasn’t there; just another flowerbed, or vegetable patch. Another part of the landscape. But it stood out, a neat wrought iron fence surrounding it, stone headstones inside. She had visited that plot countless times before, bringing bright yellow roses to Mary, laying them with a prayer, glancing towards the sky in the hope that Mary was looking down at her and smiling. But she feared she would never be able to leave the plot soon; laying on the ground where the soil had been overturned, staying with him while the winter melted into spring and grass sprouted from the mound of earth above him, like that ill-fated lover who stayed with his Annabel Lee until, like a farmer with a shotgun, Death came and showed him mercy.

The door opened behind her, Marilla’s distinctive tread stepping across the porch until the woman was beside her, handing her a steaming cup of tea in a tin cup. Anne pushed the sleeves of Gilbert’s jacket up her arms, her hands appearing from under the material to take the cup with a thankful smile.

“To warm you,” Marilla said, although Anne felt it was more to fill the silence than anything else. She stepped from the porch, settling beside Anne on the step, a cup in her own hand. They didn’t speak, although Anne knew they both were thinking the same thing; both looking at the plot barely visible from over the sloping hill, imaging them in black once more, the minister lamenting mournfully about a boy he did not know and did not care for; Anne swallowing down a choking sob, wrestling with the sudden urge to throw herself forwards, throw herself onto the ground, onto him, and to shake and shake until he jolted back to life.

“Why must people fall in love, Marilla?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. She turned her head towards her mother, finding Marilla watching her, a pitiful look to her eyes, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Surely it would be easier if we just remained alone. If we never gave our hearts away.”

“Oh, Anne,” Marilla whispered, her hand finding her daughters, their fingers weaving together. “To love is to live.”

Anne’s face contorted, tears pooling in her large blue eyes as she choked on a gasping sob. “But I’m not sure I can live without him, Marilla. I don’t think I can…”

“Shh, now,” Marilla soothed, wrapping an arm around Anne and drawing her to her, smoothing the hair from her brow as the young woman curled into her side, her forehead burrowed into the crook of her neck, a damp patch on her clothes where her tears fell. “It hurts now, Anne, but you’ll be thankful someday for the time you had together. You’ll be thankful for what you shared.”

“I love him,” Anne croaked, her hands winding around Marilla’s neck, clinging to the woman desperately.

“I know, child. I know.” Marilla stared at the plot across the land, the slate grey headstone she visited all too often prominent, taller than the rest. “And you will. You’ll carry him with you forever. Time doesn’t diminish that. The grief doesn’t go away, but it does get easier.”

“I don’t want it to get easier. I don’t want to have to grieve!” Anne cried, drawing back angrily, her voice harsh and strained. “I want him to stay!”

“Shh, shh,” Marilla hushed, Anne collapsing against her again, spent from her sudden outburst. “That isn’t up to us, Anne. That is up to God. In Him we put our trust.”

**********

Dr Ward hadn’t stayed long, his uneven steps in the hallway not forty minutes later, the women in the kitchen standing as he entered the room, Anne’s hand finding Marilla’s, Hazel rocking Dellie on her hip as Mrs Lynde clasped her hands at her bosom, her breath caught in her throat as the doctor took his time placing his bag on the tabletop, replacing the old stethoscope he carried and snapping it shut.

“Well?” Rachel prompted and he sighed, his fingers drumming against the leather, his other hand scratching at his brow. Anne waited, her teeth nipping at her bottom lip, Marilla’s fingers squeezing hers slightly as the doctor raised his eyes to theirs, looking at each in turn, his face pained. Anne was reminded of the time Gilbert had to inform Mary of her impending death; of how difficult he had found it, doubting his ability to be a doctor. Anne had chased after him, reminding him that it was who he was; infinitely kind and good-hearted. Caring about all those around him. Those qualities were what people wanted, no matter what the diagnosis would be; he would fight for each patient until they took their last breath. “ _Caring deeply will always be the right thing.”_

“Tonight,” came Dr Ward’s voice, drawing Anne from her memory; of Gilbert healthy and fit, walking beside her, looking at her with those magical eyes. “Tomorrow, if we’re lucky.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Rachel murmured, her hand at her mouth as she collapsed back into her chair, Hazel casting her eyes upward in silent prayer.

Anne felt herself sway on her feet, her mind suddenly fogged and confused. Tonight. It wasn’t enough time! It wasn’t right! He was young; he had been healthy. He –

“What can we do, doctor?” Marilla questioned, her voice sharp and efficient again, ever practical.

“Make him comfortable, Miss Cuthbert.” Dr Ward lifted his bag from the table, fetching the soft hat from the pegs at the door, placing it on his head. He reached for the handle, Marilla following him to see him out, before he paused, glancing towards them once more. “And pray God heaven lets him in.”

The man stepped through the door, Marilla following closely behind, the screen crashing back against the door jamb.

“Well, now. What unfortunate news,” Rachel began but Anne stayed no longer to hear her, instead taking off at a run, through the kitchen and up the hallway, her fists grasping at handfuls of her skirts as she raced up the stairs two at a time. She needed to see him. Their time was limited. She didn’t want to be away from him a moment longer.

She turned to the left at the tops of the stairs, her pace slowing into brisk striding steps, the door at the bottom of the hallway already ajar. She pushed it aside, finding Bash knelt at his bedside, his elbows on the bed, his face buried in his hands as he mumbled a prayer. His head snapped towards the door at the intrusion, his face tear-streaked, glistening against his skin.

“Bash,” she choked, shaking her head slightly as he reached for her hand.

“I know, Anne.”

She went to him, kneeling beside him at the bed, covering her own face with her hands as he continued his prayer.

“Give courage, Lord,

For this uncharted journey,

Peacefulness at parting

For all that must be left behind.

And an inner vision that

All that is better awaits.

Amen.”

“Amen,” Anne echoed, drawing back from her hands and taking Gilbert’s in her grasp, unembarrassed at Bash being there when she did it. He knew heartache; the dooming feeling of losing one’s love. That life is crumbling like the decaying walls they had celebrated at the day of their exams, although this time, Gilbert wouldn’t emerge from the gloom, lantern in hand. He would not appear again.

“Do you mind if I sit with you awhile?” she asked, and Bash rubbed a hand across her back, his grief riddled features melting into a smile. “Of course, Anne. He wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Bash took the chair by the bed, Anne kicking off her boots and crawling onto the bed beside Gilbert, resting her back against the brass frame at the foot of the bed, opening a tome on her knee and reading aloud, glancing towards him every once and again, praying that the doctor had been wrong. That he was to recover, his fever breaking and his eyes opening once more, stretching his arms and asking what all the fuss was about with a teasing smirk.

She eyed Bash a moment, his hands working methodically as he knit to pass the time. “Do you think he knows what is happening to him?” she probed, although the thought of him being aware of his impending death made her chest ache, her heart heavy in her chest.

Bash paused, looking towards Gilbert with a fond smile. “As sharp as a tack, our Blythe. I would say he knows.” He shook his head lightly, laughing gently as his hands stilled their weaving. “I remember one day in the summer, him coming home from an expedition you had in school, and he was so excited, prattling away about bees and honey.” 

He chuckled at the memory and Anne felt herself smiling, imagining him in his kitchen, Bash watching with a bemused expression as he hung his coat by the door, unwound his scarf, his face glowing with exhilaration at his latest discovery.

“He’s a curious sort,” Bash continued. “Always wanting to find out _more.”_ He stopped a moment, his eyes staring ahead unseeingly as though he were lost in a memory. “And he did, more often than not. There was only one thing he could never figure out.”

“Oh, yes?” Anne asked, curious now, of the one thing that had stumped the great mind of Gilbert Blythe. “And what was that?”

Bash eyed her, his brow furrowing as though he was sure she should have known the answer already.

“You.”

Anne felt her breath hitch, her heart race as her blood coursed around her body. She snapped her gaze from Bash, her eyes resting on Gilbert. “Oh yes? And what did he need to figure me out for?”

“I think you already know the answer to that, Anne.”

Anne sniffed deeply, her lips pressing together as her eyes became blinded with tears that she wiped at hastily, a flush to her cheeks. “Oh dear,” she mumbled, laughing hollowly to hide her embarrassment. “How I wish I could stop crying.”

Bash leant across the bed, his hand finding her arm, his thumb rubbing gently against her blouse.

“Tears are the words the heart can’t express.”

Anne nodded, covering Bash’s hand with hers.

“But it’s not too late to say what you need to say,” he continued, patting her gently before getting to his feet. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

Anne nodded, waiting for the door to click shut on Bash’s back before she turned her attention to Gilbert again. It felt strange, sitting opposite him like this, close but still apart, like they always were. She shifted onto her knees, crawling up the bed until she was level with him, dropping beside him and curling into his side, her hand sliding across his chest and resting over his heart, beating weakly beneath the thin material of his nightshirt.

“Gilbert,” she whispered, licking her dried lips, a lone tear rolling down her cheek, pooling at the corner of her mouth, a salty taste on her lips. “Can you hear me?”

She nestled her head against his chest, her ear pressed to his skin, listening to the wheezing of his lungs beneath the surface of his skin, his heart beneath her palm. “Gilbert, I know there’s life in you yet. Keep fighting. Keep fighting for me. For us.” A sob ripped from her, her shoulders shuddering as it tore through her body. “Please… Please!”

Her voice was urgent, desperate. She needed him; needed to tell him all that had to be said. And maybe, if he knew, if he felt the same, he would fight harder, breath faster. Not succumb to it, Anne dying with him.

“That night…,” she wept, her tears trailing from her eyes and wetting his clothes underneath her. “That night at the ruins. I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I didn’t want you to marry her. I didn’t want you to marry anyone, Gilbert, unless it was me. You and me; we’re kindred spirits. Equals. I love that you always saw me as that. All of the kindness you've shown me, all of the care, it may have appeared to go unnoticed but I’ve kept it all here in my heart.”

She propped herself up onto her elbow, her chest pressed to his, pushing his hair back from his brow. “It’s you for me, Gilbert. I could never be happy with anyone else. I’m sorry it took me so long to realise.” She ran her thumb across his cheek, blinking away a tear as she gazed at him; as handsome as he always was; high cheekbones and eyes lined with dark lashes, pale pink lips that she caught herself staring at a beat too long more often than she cared to admit. She reached for his hand, lifting it to her cheek and pressing it there.

“I’m in love with you, Gilbert. And I’ll continue to love you.”

She leant into his hand, her nose nuzzling into the palm, pressing a kiss to his skin as she wept. “Forever and a day.”

She kissed his knuckles, laying her head against his shoulder once again, their entwined hands resting against his heart, and she closed her eyes, imagining him awake, his arm wrapped around her waist as they lay like this, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She curled into him further, gripping at the collar of his nightshirt as she cried thick, silent tears, her eyes growing heavy, her body limp.

**********

“Anne.”

The voice was gentle but jolted Anne awake, the room around her pitch dark, the only glow from a sliver of moonlight that crept through the window, illuminating the boy on the bed beside her so he looked like an enchanted thing; a nymph or an angel. Something godly and ethereal.

Anne sat upright, staring down at him, her heart beating wildly as she searched his face, imagining the voice came from him, but instead a heavy hand fell upon her shoulder, Anne twisting in the bed to find Matthew and Bash behind her, Matthew watching her with his kind eyes.

“It’s time to go,” he whispered but she shook her head, falling upon the figure in the bed again, her knuckles white from how fiercely she clung to him.

“I can’t go,” she cried. “I can’t leave him. Not tonight. _Please,_ Matthew.”

But it was Bash who spoke next, rounding the end of the bed to kneel before her on the other side, his eyes imploring. “Anne, he wouldn’t want you to be here. He wouldn’t want you to see him like that. Go home, Queen Anne. And pray.”

“I can pray here,” she argued, tightening her grip as Bash’s hand covered hers, easing her fingers from the neck of Gilbert’s shirt.

“Anne, he wouldn’t want it. He would want you to remember him as he was.” He choked on a sob, nodding fiercely. “He would want you to remember him in life, Anne. At dance practice at school. That’s what he would want. Not like this… not like this.”

Anne stared forward, looking at nothing and everything all at once, her teeth catching her bottom lip, pressing into it so harshly she thought she might have punctured skin. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, holding him close to her one last time before she relaxed her grip, letting him go.

She sat up, her hair wild and her skirts crumpled, her blouse loose from her waist. She should have been embarrassed, a hot flush prickling at her skin, reddening her neck and blooming onto her cheeks, but she wasn’t. She wanted that time with him. If God granted her tomorrow, but Gilbert Blythe was no longer breathing, then she needed to have been with him. To let him know of what she had kept buried in her heart for so long.

“Ready?” Matthew asked gently, careful not to press her further, and she nodded defeatedly, swinging her weary legs over the edge of the bed, the soles of her stockings barely brushing the boards beneath her.

“Can I have just one more moment with him?” she questioned, her voice weak, barely above a whisper. Bash and Matthew shared a glance over the bed, both men nodding finally, and retreating once more from the room.

Anne turned toward Gilbert, brushing at his hair, smoothing it back from his temples before catching his hand in hers once more, his curled fingers seeming to cradle her hand perfectly.

She leant down towards him, pressing her forehead to his, her eyes fluttering closed. “I have to go now,” she whispered to him, his rasping breath hot against her cheek. “And if you have to go too, I understand. I love you.”

And, instinctively, without any thought, she dropped her lips to his, pressing a kiss to his mouth, his lips dry but pliant beneath hers, her hand still in his. And maybe it was the impulsiveness of the moment, or it was her overactive imagination willing him awake, but when her lips met his, she could have sworn that his fingers tightened, just momentarily, around her own.

She withdrew from him at the timid call of Matthew, the door handle rattling open and his head peeping around it, his eyes wide and owl-like in the dark of the room.

“I’m coming.” She crept from the bed, stuffing her feet back into her boots and lacing them with shaking hands, her movements slow, deliberate; stretching the time she had left with him. She stood, staring at the pale figure on the bed, awash with moon beams. She paced to the side of the bed, her thumb stroking his skin.

“May the angels lead you in, Gilbert,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. “Goodbye.”

And then she left him, daring not to look back for fear the worst had happened already. She wanted to remember his last moments in life how he had looked to her; illuminated by the stars, as though they were coming to claim him, to take him to the heavens where he would twinkle for infinity; shining down on all of those he left behind and all who were to come, for the rest of time.

The wind whipped around them as they left the Blythe homestead, Bash and Hazel on the doorstep, speaking with Matthew and Marilla in hushed tones. Anne wasn’t listening, drifting into and out of consciousness, her eyes trained before her, not seeing anything.

“Dr Ward will be back again at first light…” she could hear Marilla explain, Bash replying in his thick, lilting accent, although Anne couldn’t quite make out the words.

“We’ll take turns, won’t we son?” Hazel stated.

“Well, it’ll be a long night for you,” Matthew interjected.

“Yes, best not to keep you any longer.”

And then they were leaving, Marilla steering Anne down the path, her feet moving despite wanting them to halt, to turn and race back to the upstairs bedroom; the room cold and the smell heavy. Race back to him.

Matthew lifted her into the buggy, still a slip of a girl, despite her heavier clothing; her woollen skirts and Gilbert’s plaid jacket wrapped around her shoulders. Matthew and Marilla climbed up beside her, Marilla waving at the figures illuminated by the light from the kitchen, a seemingly happy family. Two people who were not about to experience one of life’s greatest tragedies.

They moved across the Blythe land, Anne eyeing the plot as they moved past it. Where his mother lay, and his father. Brothers and sisters he had lost. He was the last of his line, and with him the Blythes all died.

Anne snapped her head away from the plot, her eyes focussed on the road before her as a lone tear escaped her lashes once more, Marilla gripping at her hand as if she knew. As though she could feel Anne’s heart breaking inside her chest; smashing into smithereens, just like the teacup at Blackmore house those few days before, when she received the news that was to change the dreams her heart ached for forevermore.

**********

They travelled home in silence, finding the house warmed by a fire Jerry had set, stew in the pot for them, although the boy was nowhere to be seen, no doubt asleep already in the upstairs bedroom he had occupied since Anne had gone to college.

“Will you eat, Anne?” Marilla asked, lifting bowls from the dresser, but Anne shook her head, walking trance-like to the stairs, Gilbert’s jacket still slung across her shoulders.

She climbed the stairs slowly, her body weighted, exhausted from her work, the efforts to keep the household running; from her tears and her heartache. She turned at the top of the stairs, moving along the hallway, her fingers brushing the walls to steady herself, until she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom; of the little gable room that she occupied. Her safe space, aglow with the same moonbeams that danced across Gilbert’s skin and Anne moved to the window to stare up at the large orb in the sky, Avonlea beneath dappled in silvery starlight. It was a magical scene; a night to make a wish on, but the wish she would ask for would never come true. She was no longer a little girl; the moon had lost its magic, the stars their power. There was no blue fairy in the sky, ready to appear in her bedroom and grant her heart’s desire. Instead, there was simply heartache. A girl who felt that she was lost at sea, adrift with no direction, and a boy who was dancing with death, about to plunge from the precipice of one realm and fall to another.

Anne felt her eyes squeeze closed, her hand flutter to her mouth, her fingers pressing against the skin that had brushed his, and she began to pray; the despairing prayers of a person who had lost so much and was afraid to lose more. The prayer of an orphan who fell in love with her friend, only to lose him before he knew of the depth of her love; the tenderness of her feelings. She was losing him before he was ever really hers.

“Gracious, heavenly Father,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering open as she fell to her knees, resting her elbows against the sill as she clutched her hands together desperately, her gaze on the stars, the twinkling dots reflecting against her glassy eyes; sparkling with unshed tears. “Please, if you are listening… Please spare him. Please let him stay…”

She pressed her forehead to her hands, swallowing the painful lump that rose in her throat. “He wants to do so much. He _means_ so much. How can I… What will I do without him? Please.” Her plea was punctuated by a sob, robbing her lungs of air. “Please.”

And she prayed anxiously, hopefully, for the rest of the night. Praying that the sun would rise in the morning and he would still be breathing. That God would take her too and spare her the grieving she would do when the time came and he was called from this life and into the next. She prayed that he would be strong enough to continue to fight. That God would perform a miracle and he would recover.

She prayed, unsure if there was someone listening; some great body in the clouds taking pity for the waif on her knees on the floor of her east gable room, her heart cracking with the weight of losing a love.

She prayed until God showed her mercy, sending the sandman to sprinkle sleep into her eyes, Anne collapsing onto her bedroom floor in an exhausted heap, still wrapped in the red plaid jacket that still smelt like him; wood and pencil shavings, the pages of an old book. All that he once was. All that he was to become.

**********

Day came quickly, the sun rising slowly over the hills, cutting through the dim haze of the dark, winter morning, and as though it were clockwork, the old cockerel on the roof of the chicken coop cawed, jerking Anne awake, her neck stiff from the night she had spent against the hard, cold floorboards. 

She didn’t listen for the sounds of the house coming alive; Marilla humming in the kitchen, the clatter of the kettle, Jerry and Matthew working in the yard, the heavy thud of their work boots on the frozen earth. She pushed herself upwards with her weak limbs, brushing down her skirt and racing from the room, thundering down the stairs to find the kitchen still cool and empty, Matthew and Marilla still asleep. She raced through the kitchen, not stopping to write a note, a line to tell them where she had gone. Instead, she grabbed her hat from the peg, pulling it over her ears, her loose hair spilling wildly around her shoulders. She flung open the door, gasping at the icy wind that met her, pinching at her nose and causing her stinging eyes to water, and she ran.

She ran as fast as her leg would allow her, across the fields that sprawled from the border of Green Gables, through the forest, her skirt snagging on the bare branches that littered the forest floor, Anne stumbling on slippery leaves and patches of mud covered encrusted with ice.

She ran, despite the ache in her lungs, how they burned at the frost-bitten air, the chill seeping into her and sending uncomfortable tingles down her spine.

She ran until she reached the makeshift fence, great planks nailed together marking the Blythe land, the grass crunching under her foot as she raced up the hill, panting, her breath appearing before her in great white clouds.

The house was quiet; no chattering of Dellie in the kitchen, Hazel singing a lullaby Anne was unfamiliar with. No Elijah, appearing from the barn, wrench in his hand, at the sound of a visitor. No lamp lit in the kitchen, or blazing fire in the range.

Anne swallowed nervously, feeling a sinking weight in her stomach. She raised her hand to the door, hesitating, before bringing her knuckles down against the painted wood. Once. Twice.

And she listened. She listened for footsteps or a voice calling “I’m coming!” She listened for life, the silence eventually broken by a slow, heavy tread, a figure in a cap appearing behind the door, their hand slow on the handle, turning it carefully and opening it wide.

“Anne…”

Anne shook her head, her lips pressing together. She felt her heart shatter, pour from her, fragments of it scattered on the Blythe steps. It seemed fitting, she thought, for that’s where it belonged.

“The doctor is here at the moment, Anne. It’s not a good time.” Hazel’s eyes softened, a pitying look to her face as the girl turned from her, her face like a broken china doll. “Come back later,” she called after her as Anne dropped heavily from the step, walking in a daze back down the path and across to the forest, seeking her place of comfort; something else that had been broken, struck down in its prime, leaving nothing but ruins behind.

She moved instinctually, finding the Story Clubhouse easily, despite it being months since she had been there. How curious, she thought, that she had never shown Gilbert it. And now she’d never get the chance, the doctor arriving that morning, taking his limp wrist between efficient figures and counting, before looking upwards at Bash with a sorrowful expression.

_“I’m sorry.”_

“I’m sorry,” Anne echoed, slumping onto the ground amongst the fragments of clay and wooden boards. “Gilbert, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

And while she wanted to scream and rage, kick at the ruined shack with all her might, she found she couldn’t; the ache in her chest too crippling, a sharp stab to the place where her heart had once been, like a knife plunged between her ribs, the shaft twisting roughly.

She felt all she could do was weep, her tears slow and silent, her arms curling around her middle in an embrace, rocking gently back and forth as she stared upwards.

Up to where he was now; a haloed being among the clouds.

Up with his parents.

Up with Mary.

**********

She was unsure for how long she had stayed on the forest floor. It could have been 10 minutes or two hours, but when she felt she had cried all she could, her body still shuddering despite no more tears coming, she stood, her legs cramping as she began to walk once more towards home. All was done at the Blythe house now. They would need her no longer and she was unsure she could visit again, seeing his ghost everywhere. By the doorway in the kitchen, eyeing her with those watchful eyes. Passing as a shadow behind the glass panelling on the front door, vanishing at her knock, Hazel or Bash appearing instead. She would see his figure, tall and broad shouldered, on the porch as she walked past, his hand raised as though he were waving to her and foolishly, she would wave back.

No, she would do best to avoid that house and the heartache it would bring. She would go home, pour herself tea and hide in her room, nursing her aching heart alone until Marilla would come to her, knocking lightly before peering around the doorjamb, finding Anne in bed, his coat cuddled close, tear stained and tired. And she would hold her until sleep came to her and she could forget about him until her eyes opened once again.

She stumbled through the trees, her legs heavy, the toes of her boots tripping on the moss and lichens covering the ground like a rich velvet cloak, until she pushed through the thicket that bordered the forest and into the Avenue, a whinnying horse rearing at the figure that suddenly appeared, Anne’s arms raised overhead to protect herself from the hooves that clattered back to the earth.

“Anne?”

“Marilla!”

Marilla climbed from the buggy, racing to Anne and bundling her to her. “Good heavens, child! Where have you been? We’ve been so worried.” Anne’s fingers wrapped the collar of Marilla’s coat, holding her close, drawing comfort from the older woman’s arms curled tightly around her back. “Let’s get you inside.”

Marilla righted Anne’s coat, fastening the brass buckles of the red jacket, brushing Anne’s hair back over her shoulders. “It’s to be a busy day.”

Anne nodded understandingly, remembering the day Mary passed, the people coming and going, those who would barely raise their head to her in the street arriving with condolences and a cooling shepherd’s pie, the potato congealing on the top. It was a day that passed in a flurry of preparations; cups of tea with the minister as they arranged the service, Rachel rounding together the women of Avonlea to ready arrangements for the church, in yellow, she ordered. Bright yellow.

Anne wondered what colour of arrangements they would choose for Gilbert, as she clambered onto the buggy. Maybe red, like his coat. Or gold, like the warming flecks in his eyes. Rosy pink like the crisp strawberry apples in their orchard.

She found herself lost in her thoughts, wondering who would call to their home, or what she would say in the letter she would have to send Diana. She pondered on what they would dress him in, Anne shooed from the room once more as Bash knotted the tie around his neck, smooths the lapels of his best Sunday suit, Matthew offering him the cufflinks he had once borrowed, allowing Anne to fasten them to his wrists, the last time she would touch him, indulging in one last brush of her fingertips against his cheek, through his hair, pressing a kiss to his soft skin as she whispered “I love you” close to his ear, hoping his soul lingered long enough to hear it and know she meant every word.

She only came to again with the bray of the horse, tugging against the reins as the buggy slowed to a halt, Anne realising, with wild eyes, that they had stopped outside the Blythe house.

“Oh no, Marilla,” she cried. “Please, I can’t go in there. I can’t do it. Not now.”

“Fiddlesticks, Anne Shirley Cuthbert,” Marilla replied, reaching for her basket as Elijah waved to her from the house.

“Elijah,” Marilla greeted as he wandered down the slope, his hands in his pockets. “Any news?”

“The doctor’s just left,” Elijah answered, nodding towards the house. “Bash will know more than I do.”

Marilla nodded, hurrying up the slope towards the house, Anne trailing behind, anxious at what she would find inside, the lamps still unlit, the kitchen cool and dim. She removed her jacket, hanging it on the peg he always used, smoothing her crinkled skirt with shaking hands, her head snapping upwards at voices upstairs; Bash and Hazel and…

She ran, her nailed boots thundering down the hallway, stumbling clumsily on the bottom step, her foot finding the hem of her dress. She raced the stairs, her heart thumping uncontrollably in her chest, breathless as she skidded on the floorboards at the top, shouldering into the wall, her step brisk, a jog when she reached his doorway, Hazel and Bash inside looking at the bed with smiling faces.

“Gilbert…” she breathed, her voice light, barely a whisper.

“Anne.”

She moved into the room, not noticing the curious stare from Hazel or the fatherly smile from Bash, wiping at his eyes with the cuff of his shirtsleeves. All she could see was the boy in the bed, his skin pale, his head propped on cushions and lolled against the headboard, Dellie settled in the crook of his arm.

“Gilbert!” she cried, a disbelieving laugh escaping her as her lip quivered; hot, happy tears rolling from her eyes. She launched herself onto him, winding him with the ferocity of her embrace, her arms tightening around his neck as she drew him close, his arm looping limply around her waist.

“I would thank you not to break my baby, Queen Anne,” Bash chuckled, pulling Dellie from the tangle of bodies, Gilbert’s eyes closing, inhaling deeply as he held Anne to him. Bash nodded towards the door. “Come along, mum. We’ll leave these two alone.”

They drew apart at the soft closing of the door, Anne’s hands coming up to cup Gilbert’s face, her thumbs caressing the hollows in his cheeks as she watched him, his gaze steady; ablaze with that gentle glow again; mossy green and November grey, flecked with fragments of gold.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispered, resting her forehead against his and he laughed gently, covering her hands with his, his thumb rubbing gently at her delicate wrist.

“Neither can I,” he replied, his voice gravelled, scratching from a fortnight of illness.

“We were told - I thought…”

“I know,” he whispered, his answer hasty, as though he didn’t want to think of it; what his fate was to be.

“It’s a miracle.”

“That it is, Anne.” And he pressed a kiss to her forehead, Anne finding the collar of his nightshirt and clutching to it, thanking God that he was still here. He had answered her prayers. “That it is.”

***********

His recovery was slow, almost a week having passed before he was fit enough to get from bed. Hazel fussed around him, wrapping him in a sweater and coat, his cap on his head, his grey scarf wound around his neck; two high, red spots appearing on Gilbert's cheekbones as he weakly swatted her away, his eyes darting to Anne with a bashful smile to his face. Bash supported his elbow as he walked unsteadily down the stairs, Dr Ward insisting fresh air would do him good.

Anne had spent every day with him, sometimes chatting to him idly, a smile on his face as he rested, his eyes closed once more, his hand in hers. Or she would read to him; Walt Whitman or Mary Shelley, anything she could get her hands on, to pass the time, closing the book only when the room became too dark to read in, her eyes strained and her voice hoarse; Gilbert already asleep, snoring soundly on the bed.

And when the time came for him to get from bed, she was there too, dragging a chair from the kitchen out to the porch, easing him into it and sitting at his feet, both of them staring silently out over the hills, Anne paring an apple in her hands, slicing it into thin slivers and handing them to him; one for him, one for her. They didn’t need to speak, both thinking the same thing, watching the sun sink behind the hills in the late afternoon and marvelling on God’s creation; how they would both appreciate each day, sitting side by side like this, basking beneath the winter sun, in case it was their last.

“I think I would like to go for a walk,” Gilbert announced one day, glancing down at Anne, his face softening, melting into a smile. “Care to join me?”

“Well, I can hardly let you go alone,” Anne replied with a roll of her eyes, although she smiled gently, clambering to her feet and reaching out for him, Gilbert swaying unsteadily as he stood. He had lost some weight during his illness, his clothes hanging from him now, but each day his strength was improving, his face becoming fuller once more, although Anne was loathed to allow him to go too far alone, Gilbert tiring easily, his legs becoming weak and trembling beneath his weight.

They stepped from the porch, Anne linking her arm through his, shouldering his weight slightly as they moved slowly towards the fence and the open green that led towards Green Gables.

“We won’t go too far today,” she stated, a devilish smile on her face as she looked at him, her nose wrinkled, her grin broad. “I don’t want you dropping on me.”

She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, Gilbert’s eyes fixed forward, a dimple in his cheek showing her he was smiling too.

“I think you may have gone into the wrong profession, Anne,” he chuckled, smiling down at her. “I dare say you would have made a fine nurse.”

Anne scoffed. “Not at all,” she declared. “If it wasn’t for Marilla, Hazel and Mrs Lynde. I just carried out their instructions.”

“But you kept me company, didn’t you?” Anne’s feet stilled, Gilbert slowing beside her, a confused furrow to his brow. “Is everything alright?”

She stared at him, her eyes flickering between his. “How did you know I kept you company?” she asked, a flush colouring her cheeks; remembering all she had said to him, her grief causing her to pour out the contents of her heart to him, tell him all she had trapped inside herself since she had known him. And she wanted him to know it all, truly she did. But now that he was once again awake, back in the realm of the living, the fear of it being unrequited, a one-sided love affair, terrified her. Gilbert most likely thought her a foolish, lovesick little schoolgirl, whispering all her deepest secrets to him on his deathbed.

He chuckled, quirking an eyebrow as he eyed her curiously, her skin suddenly tinged red, flushing as bright as her hair. “Bash told me,” he answered, and Anne felt the tension dissolve from her body, the tight wire of worry going slack inside her as she exhaled a sigh of relief.

“But you…” She paused, her brow furrowed as she carefully selected her words. “You don’t remember anything from then? From your fever?”

He shook his head, nipping at his lip thoughtfully as Anne looped her arm through the crook of his elbow once more, leading them forward slowly, both silent, Gilbert’s chin raised towards the sky, eyes closed as the weak winter sun shone upon his face, Anne watching his chest heave as he sighed, glancing back towards her.

“I remember some things,” he admitted, a sheepish smile to his face. Anne sucked in a breath. “But I’m not sure if they are memories at all or just dreams.”

“What do you remember?” Her voice was small, breathy, and he turned his face towards her, his gaze finding hers, drawing her in like a siren called a sailor to the sea, a flicker of a smile on his lips.

“I remember voices; Bash, Hazel, Dr Ward.” He swallowed, the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing. “You.”

His skin flushed; his eyes tearing from her, finding the toes of his boots.

“And what did we say?” she pressed, her heartbeat racing, her palms suddenly sweaty, Anne wiping her free hand against her skirt.

“I have little snatches of things, is all. I remember you telling me of our old school friends and reading me ‘ _A Perilous Life’._ Did I imagine all that?”

Anne bit her lip, shaking her head as he continued. “I remember you saying how different you look, no longer a school-girl in braids.” They both laughed.

“Not that, you look the exact same to me.” He reached out a hand, twisting a flame-red strand of hair in his hand and tugging lightly. “Carrots.”

Anne swatted at him playfully. “Gilbert Blythe, you cad! Just where is my slate when I need it?”

He chuckled, releasing her hair from his grip, his fingers slipping down the strand before falling to his side once more. “And then that’s where it becomes a little hazy, because what else I remember… Well, I don’t think it could be true.”

“And why is that?” she whispered, her steps ceasing, turning towards Gilbert and raising her eyes to him.

“Because, Anne…”

“Because?”

“Because I came to you, Anne, that night at the bonfire, and you sent me away. Because I’ve been falling in love with you more and more since that first day I met you in the forest, and you’ve given me no signs that you felt the same. No indication that my feelings were reciprocated. So, what I dreamt… What I think I _heard;_ it couldn’t be true.”

Anne felt her throat ache, a lump swell uncomfortably as tears pricked at her eyes. His eyes were wide and wild, half agony and half hope, boring into hers as though he was searching for the thing she had never said.

“And what if it was?” she asked. “What difference would it make? You have a Miss Christine Stewart waiting for you in Toronto. You don’t need me.”

“Anne, I need you,” he urged, his voice desperate, his hands finding hers. “I’ve always needed you.”

“But Christine?” she argued aimlessly, Gilbert shaking his head fervently.

“Anne, I’m not courting Christine. I’m not in love with her. She’s a friend, Anne. A _friend._ How could I love anyone else but you? What am I without you, Anne? All I am going to be is because of you. Because you _cared_ when nobody else did.”

“But you could find someone else, Gilbert. Someone better, prettier, cleverer…”

He took her shoulders in his hands, turning her back towards him. “I don’t _want_ anyone else, Anne. I only want you. Tell me, Anne. Tell me it was a dream and I can go on as I always have. But if there’s any chance you feel the same way, you _must_ let me know, Anne. Life is too fragile, let’s not waste anymore time fighting what we both know is here.”

His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly, exerted from his outburst; from Anne’s attempt to flee from him. But he had been brave; he had faced death and won. She needed to be brave now too.

“I feel the same.”

She raised her eyes to his, finding them glistening, tears pooling at his lashes as a slow smile spread across his face.

“You do?”

“I do.”

She laughed lightly as a tear slipped from his eye, Gilbert chuckling as he raised a hand to swipe it away with his thumb, Anne covering his hand with hers, tracing circles onto his cheek. “I’m in love with you, Gilbert Blythe.”

“And I’m in love with you, Anne,” he replied, his hand coming to rest upon her cheek, caressing lightly at her pale, freckled skin; skin he had wished to pepper with kisses for longer than he could remember. “Forever and a day.”

His gaze was soft, dropping to her lips, Anne’s skin exploding with goosepimples as he leant forward, slowly, slowly, until his mouth hovered just millimetres from hers, his breath hot against her skin, a fire erupting low in her belly.

“My Anne,” he whispered, his thumb trailing a featherlight touch over her cheekbone, Anne leaning into his palm. 

And then his lips were on hers, slotting together like puzzle pieces, two halves of the same whole, Anne’s hands finding the collar of his coat and twisting them into the heavy wool, pulling him closer to her, their bodies flush as he wrapped his arm around her waist, feeling her heartbeat against his chest, his hand deep into her hair, his fingers brushing against her scalp, tangled in her fiery tresses. 

Their kiss was insistent, passionate, all that they had never said pouring from them, swallowed by their lover’s lips. Gilbert felt Anne’s mouth curve against his own, a smile to her face as she took his bottom lip between hers, kissing him softly, both breathless as they broke apart, Gilbert’s forehead falling against hers, his eyes fluttering closed, dark lashes like black butterfly wings against his pale skin.

“Why do I feel we’ve done that before?” he asked as one of Anne’s hands slipped from his coat, brushing across the nape of his neck and finding the cropped curls there, her fingernails scratching gently at his skin.

“Perhaps we did,” Anne smiled, “in a dream.”

Gilbert's eyes fluttered opening, finding Anne’s, as blue as the sea that stretched from the red cliffs of Avonlea, gazing at him, sparkling with radiant happiness. “You kissed me, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice low, a velvetiness to it that caused a thrill to run along Anne’s spine, her skin to tingle. “I felt a kiss and I knew it was you… I just knew it.”

“I was afraid it would be the last chance I would have to kiss you. The last time I would see you alive.”

“Anne.” Her eyes snapped open at how he said her name, like it was the most beautiful name in the world, his mouth savouring it on his tongue. He pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of her wrist. “If I had to come back for someone, I always knew it would be you.”

Anne pushed herself onto her tiptoes, drawing him to her once more, claiming his lips with hers, their kiss softer this time, slow and savouring; Gilbert’s arms around Anne’s waist, holding her to him as though she was the being that brought him back to earth. And he supposed, in a way, she did; through the fever and the fear, her voice rang as clear as a bell, calling to him, urging him to fight for her, to not leave her alone. He wouldn't ever again. 

And as the sun set over Avonlea, the pale, yellow ball of fire sinking low behind the hills, deep purple sky peppered with silver stars usurping the brightness, Anne no longer feared the night and the news the morning would bring. Rather, she looked forward to the next day, the sun rising once more, bringing with it a fresh start; new opportunities she had not had the day before.

It brought with it another day with Gilbert Blythe.

**Author's Note:**

> And here we are at the notes!
> 
> Hope everyone is well and keeping safe. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading! If you enjoyed this little tale, please drop me a comment or some feedback. I love to hear from you all!
> 
> And a big happy birthday to lovely Lela again!
> 
> If anyone is awaiting a 'The Love Letter' update, that will be coming very soon, I promise!
> 
> Until then, come and find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/chaos_in_calm), [tumblr](https://beckybubbles.tumblr.com) or drop me a little line or question on [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/chaos_in_calm) if you have anything you'd like to know!
> 
> Sending lots of love to you all!  
> Becky x


End file.
